The bride, she wears a white, white rose -- the plucking it was mine; The poet wears a laurel wreath -- and I the laurel twine; And oh, the child, your little child, that's clinging close to you, It laughs to wear my violets -- they are so sweet and blue! And I, I have a wreath to wear -- ah, never rue nor thorn! I sometimes think that bitter wreath could be more sweetly worn! For mine is made of ghostly bloom, of what I can't forget -- The fallen leaves of other crowns -- rose, laurel, violet! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LIFE by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE FALLOW DEER AT THE LONELY HOUSE by THOMAS HARDY CHIQUITA by FRANCIS BRET HARTE SONNET: 12 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE PRAYER FOR THIS HOUSE by LOUIS UNTERMEYER MY VERY PARTICULAR FRIEND by MARIA ABDY NEXT DAY; IN THE TRAIN by LAWRENCE ALMA-TADEMA FROM A YOUNG WOMAN TO AN OLD OFFICER WHO COURTED HER by ELIZABETH FRANCES AMHERST |